Wayne looked around. Wayne saw a chip bucket. Wayne grabbed some Land o' Gold reds.

"Did you tell Buddy to send me to Dallas?"

"No. But I've always thought a cold money run would do you some good."

Wayne said, "It was enlightening."

"What did you do with the money?"

"Got myself in trouble."

"Was it worth it?"

"I learned a few things."

"Care to tell me?"

Wayne tossed a chip. Wayne Senior pulled his hip piece. He shot the chip. He nailed it. Plastic shards flew.

Wayne walked inside. Wayne detoured by the dressing room. Janice shot him a view.

Bare legs. A dance step. Streaked-hair allure.

15

(Las Vegas, 12/6/63)

Dallas tweaked him. He should have killed Junior. Junior should have killed the spook.

Vegas sparkled-fuck death-should-haves meant shit. Nice breeze/nice sun/nice casinos.

Pete cruised the Strip. Pete logged distractions:

The Tropicana course. Cocktail carts abundant. Drive-ins. Carhops on skates. Uplift abundant.

Pete made two circuits. Shit popped out:

Some nuns hit the Sands. They spot Frank Sinatra. They swoon and piss Frank off. They shvitz up his Sy Devore suit.

Grief by the Dunes:

Two cops grab two spics. The spics bleed very large. The scene vibes busboy brouhaha. Juan fucked Ramon's sister. Ramon had first dibs. Shivs by the low-roller buffet.

Nice mountains. Neon signs. Jap-tourist shutterbugs.

Pete made three circuits. The Strip show wore thin. Pete re-tweaked Dallas.

BE USEFUL: Sacred fucking text. The Hughes deal would take years. Ward said so. Carlos agreed. Carlos said Pete _should_ push dope in Vegas-but-the other Boys have to agree.

Ward was _trиs_ smart. The Arden move was _trиs_ dumb. Ward tripped on his dick-at a _trиs_ bad time.

Ward was in D.C. and New Orleans. Jimmy H. wanted him. Carlos beckoned. Carlos wants to snip loose ends. Carlos wants Ward's take. Carlos trusts Ward-but Ward always ridicules slaughter.

Arden saw the hit team. Arden knew Betty Mac. Arden knew Hank Killiam. A _trиs_ safe bet: Carlos wants to clip them. A _trйs_ safe bet: Ward calls it rash.

A bug was spreading. Call it the Mercy Flu. Call it the Me-No-Kill Blues.

He should have killed Junior. Junior should have killed the shine.

He watched Junior work. He climbed an adjacent hill. He got a covert view. Junior diced Maynard Moore. Junior cut through his brain pan. Junior pulled slugs. His knife slipped. He ate bone chips. He hacked them out and rocked steady.

He checked Junior out. Three intel squads: L.A./New York/Miami. His guys said Junior checked _him_ out.

His contacts hated Junior. They said Wayne Senior was a stud. They said Wayne Junior was a geek.

Junior passed him the mercy bug. Junior let the nigger live. Junior misread his options. The nigger vibed stupe. The nigger vibed homing pigeon. The nigger might home back here.

Pete cruised. Pete checked lounge marquees. Pete got the gestalt.

Name acts. No-name acts. Dick Contino/Art Dottie Todd/the Girlzapoppin' Revue. Hank Henry/the Vagabonds/Freddy Bell the Bellboys. The Persian Room/the Sky Room/the Top 0' the Strip.

Jack "Jive" Schafer/Gregg Blando/Jody the Misfits. The Dome of the Sea/the Sultan's Lounge/the Rumpus Room.

Call it: Toilets and carpet joints. Some high-end rooms. Call it for keeps:

Find Barb a spot. Find her some nonunion backup. Scotty the Scabs or the Happy Horseshitters-a fixed rate and a cut.

Pete parked in the Sands lot. Pete hit some casinos-the Bird/the Riv/the DI. He caught a lull. Shit stood out boldfaced.

He played blackjack. He observed:

A pit boss bops on a card cheat. The fuck wears a card-sleeve prosthesis. The fuck shoots cards out his cuffs.

He saw Johnny Rosselli. They schmoozed. They talked up the Hughes deal. Johnny praised Ward Littell-dig the threat implied.

Ward's crucial to our plans. You're muscle-you're not.

Johnny said _ciao_. Two call girls hovered. It vibed three-way.

Pete walked. Pete hit the Sands/the Dunes/the Flamingo. Pete dug the iow lights and thick rugs.

Sparks shot off his feet. His socks bipped and buzzed.

He hit bars. He drank club soda. He honed his cave vision. He watched barmen work. Call girls ducked him. He was 6'5"/230. He vibed strongarm cop.

What's _this_:

A barman pours pills-six in a shot glass-a waitress picks up.

He braced the barman. He flashed a toy badge. He growled very gruff. The barman laughed. His son wore a badge like that. His son ate Cocoa Puffs.

The man oozed style. Pete bought him a drink. The man spritzed on Vegas and dope.

Horse/weed/cocaine-verboten. The fuzz enforced the trifecta. The Mob enforced the No-"H" Law.

They tortured pushers. They killed them. Local hypes copped in L.A. Local hypes rode the Heroin Highway.

Pills were cool: Red devils/yellow jackets/high hoppers. Ditto liquid meth sans spike. Drink it-don't shoot it-fear the spike-phobic fuzz.

The fuzz sanctioned pills. Two Narco units-Sheriff's/LVPD. Pills got pipelined in: T.J. to L.A./L.A. to Vegas. Local quacks consigned pills. They fed barmen and cabbies. They fed pill fiends Vegaswide.

The West LV coons craved white horse. Said coons itched to ride. The No Horse Rule de-horsed them and kept them de-satisfied.

Pete walked. Pete hit the Persian Room. Pete watched Dick Contino rehearse. He knew Dick. Dick played squeeze-box gigs for Sam G. Dick owed the Chicago Cartel. The Boys attached his check. The Boys bought his food. The Boys paid his rent and bought his kids' threads.

Dick pitched a tale of woe-woe is me-lots of woe and no tail. Pete slid him two C's. Dick spritzed the Vegas lounge scene.

The Detroit Boys ran the local. The steward took bribes. He usurped the prime snatch. He suborned them to hook. They worked the Lake Mead cruise boats. Lounge kids kept rough hours. They ate breakfast exclusive. The lounge scene ran on Dexedrine and pancakes.

Pete walked. Pete caught Louis Prima in rehearsal. An old geek chewed his ear off.

Pops booked no-name acts. Pops father-henned the girls if they blew him. Pops told them who to avoid:

Shvartze pimps. "Talent scouts." Cockamamie "producers." Skin-mag men and schmucks with no address.

Pete thanked him. Pops bragged. Pops relived his salad days as a pimp. I ran trim-the best in the west-I scored for the late JFK.

o o o

Pete broke three C-notes. Pete glommed sixty five-spots.

He grabbed a scratch pad. He wrote down his phone number sixty fucking times. He hit a liquor store. He bought sixty short dogs. He grabbed his sap and drove to West Vegas.

He cruised in slow. He wore the sap. He held his automatic. He saw:

Dirt streets. Dirt yards. Dirt lots. Shack chateaus abundant.

Tar-paper pads with cinder-block siding. _Beaucoup_ churches/one mosque. _ALLAH IS LORD!_ signs. Allah signs revised to _JESUS!_

Lots of street activity. Jigs cooking bar-b-que in fifty-gallon drums.

The Wild Goose Bar/the Colony Club/the Sugar Hill Lounge. Streets named for Presidents and letters. Shit cars ubiquitous-ad hoc housing:

Two-tenant Chevys. Bachelor Lincolns. Bring-the-whole-family Fords.

Pete cruised slooooow. Uppity coons flipped him off. They scowled. They chucked beer cans. They dinged his fender skirts.

He stopped at a rib drum. A halfbreed served short ends. A chow line pressed in. They scoped Pete. They snickered. They sneered.

Pete smiled. Pete bowed. Pete bought them lunch.

He tipped the breed fifty. He passed out short dogs and fives. He passed out his phone-number slips.

A silence ensued. Said silence built. Said silence lapsed slooooow.